


Ramble On, Prove It All Night

by elegantwings



Series: 66 Seals [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean only started playing 66 Seals because everyone else was, not expecting to make a friend who would prove to be the perfect distraction from worrying about school, money, his younger brother, and their annoying neighbor. If he fails to realize that his new friend might be closer than he thinks, he blames the sleep deprivation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ramble On, Prove It All Night

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Destiel Word Prompt Contest on tumblr.

Dean snatches the box of oreos out of Sam’s hand before he can even open it. “I bought these with my own money,” he lies, because there’s only one thing his money goes towards but Sam doesn’t really know anything about that.

“Bullshit, Dean!” Sam’s grown a couple of inches since he hit fourteen, but it’s still not enough to keep up with Dean who’s already halfway upstairs. “Come on, Castiel is coming over and we don’t have any other food.”

Dean shrugs. “Then I guess you and Space Case will just have to deal.” He eats a cookie for emphasis. “Tell him to bring his own food. Aren’t his parents loaded or something?”

Sam rolls his eyes, huffing with frustration. “Yeah I guess, but he mostly just depends on his own money, and what his older brother makes, which isn’t really a lot. I can’t just ask him to go out and buy food because my jerk brother stole the only snacks we have.”

“And by isn’t really a lot, you mean like a hundred times more than Dad makes on three jobs combined?”

“Shut up, he lives next door, he and his brother can’t be that much better off than we are.”

“Sammy, you know we only live here because Bobby didn’t want to after Karen died.”

“Uncle Bobby isn’t rich,” Sam says quietly, looking at his shoes.

“Oh Grasshopper, you have no idea.” He takes the last couple of steps to his room, tossing the cookies on the bed and stepping over a pile of dirty clothes to his cluttered desk.

Dean locks his door just as Castiel knocks on the front door, but his strangely deep voice carries through the walls. Dean turns on his laptop and loads 66 Seals to the sound of his brother apologizing to their neighbor for empty cabinets while Cas assures him kindly that he’s not hungry, anyway.

A series of loud chimes surprises Dean awake, his phone reminding him that it’s midnight. He sits up suddenly, pushing his chair backwards and wiping a hand across his face, feeling the imprint of keys on his cheeks. He squints at the screen, ignoring the messages from his teammates that he received when he fell asleep about three hours ago.

Clarence: Hello, John.  
John, are you awake?  
Bonzo: Took you long enough, Big Man.  
Bonzo: I was totally not asleep, I was doing important quest things  
Bonzo: Where were you, five words or less?  
Clarence: Out for a walk. Bitch.  
Bonzo : Right, if by walk you mean studying because you’re lame.

Dean yawns and spares a glance towards the textbook on his desk that he’d really meant to study while he waited. He’s got seven hours before he has to leave for school, he should be able to manage at least an hour to glance over the important stuff.

His phone alarm goes off again at six am like it always does, and like every morning since Ash illegally installed a copy of 66 Seals on Dean’s computer, he’s still focused intently on exorcising digital demons with the help of an awkward and badly named angel by his side. So much for studying.

Bonzo: I should shower and get ready for school.  
Clarence: Yes, I should be going too. If you’re on before I am again tonight, try not to screw anything up too badly.  
Bonzo: …Shut up. I own this game, okay?  
Clarence: Of course, John.

Dean always feels the same combination of disappointment when the morning rolls around, and it’s not because he hasn’t gotten his homework done. He tells himself it’s because of how much he enjoys the game, and not because a guy he’s never met in real life has somehow become his best friend.

He knows most people play to reach the deadline. By February 15th at 6 pm, a year after the game came out, either the “demons” will have broken enough seals, or the angels will have stopped them. If the demons win, the devil walks the earth and the battle begins to save the earth. If the angels win, the whole thing resets and everyone starts over.

Human characters are neutral, you pick a side and you stick to it. The angels and the demons get the really difficult tasks and delegate to the hunters, so Dean just worries about the quests to get items and explore maps. He only remembers the deadline because his friends talk about it more than they talk about college applications and the senior prank. Actually, he’s pretty sure everyone has forgotten there’s even supposed to be a senior prank. And while they’re strategizing about saving the digital world, Dean’s busy arranging his schedule so he’s sure he’ll meet Clarence online for at least an hour.

***

Dean’s about to put his key in the front door when it swings open on its own and he’s face to face with Castiel.

“Hello, Dean. You have something on your face.” Castiel gestures towards what’s probably a smudge of grease on Dean’s cheek. His tone is so casual, Dean almost forgets that this is the same guy who shouted, “We all know you have a big penis, so please turn your music down,” while Dean blasted Metallica and washed his baby last Saturday.

Of course, Dean hadn’t exactly been a shining example of courtesy when he’d shouted back. “Your face is a big penis!” and thrown a wet rag through Castiel’s open window.

They stand awkwardly in front of each other for another few moments until Sam’s voice startles them back into motion. Their sides brush as they push past one another and for a half second they’re stuck sideways in the threshold, breaking apart suddenly with twin huffs of frustration.

***

Dean wasn’t paying attention, and that’s how he got himself in this mess. When he’s dozing off in class or working on an engine, he feels like he has some kind of control over his life, over his future. Because it’s going to be more of the same, community college replacing high school, different cars in Bobby’s garage.

Bonzo, real name John Bonham, demon hunter…well his life isn’t so cut and dry. Dean laughed when he read through the character bios his friends made up, the clichéd origin stories with bits and pieces of their real lives shoved in. Like Jo’s hunter, following in her dead father’s footsteps, or Gordon’s getting revenge for his sister’s death. All fiction with a bitter hint of truth.

Bonzo’s bio still says some bullshit about band members turning into zombies. But when it’s just Dean and a gun facing off against some creature conjured to kill him, it’s easy to channel years of frustration and betrayal into each fictional gunshot. He’s protecting his brother, doing the job that their father should be doing. But within 66 Seals, he can pretend his dad, the real John, trusted him with Sam because he’s tracking the creature responsible for their mother’s death. A house fire caused by bad wiring becomes the work of a demon. Doesn’t matter that Sammy’s not actually playing the game. In fact, it’s better that way.

The pack of hellhounds takes him by surprise. The little bastards flicker in and out of sight, drooling blood and poisonous spit, hacking away at his health with their teeth. The screen goes black and Dean curses loudly as the image of his avatar bleeding out fades away.

Doctor Badass: Fuck, Dean, fuck, fuck! You’re going to Hell!

But Dean’s screen must be frozen or something because it won’t let him reply. The loading symbol spins in the bottom corner of the window. He’s half-tempted to shut the game off, maybe take some time off from the game, but curiosity is getting the better of him. And he used his own money to buy gun upgrades yesterday. He knew that was a bad idea.

His avatar is stretched out on what looks like several chains, bleeding badly, which makes no sense because his health meter’s still stuck at zero. Ghosts fade in and out of the screen, freaky but not touching him, and even though it’s not real he still flicks on the light switch.

Doctor Badass: Fuck. Try to take screencaps.

Dean ignores him, can’t reply anyway.

What looks at first like a tall man walks towards him, but Dean realizes as the all-white eyes come into focus that this is some kind of demon. Not for the first time, he wishes he has some kind of manual to figure this shit out.  
Alistair: You can take the knife now, kiddo, and save yourself a world of misery, or you can try to fight me. And I’m a tough guy to beat without any of your fancy weapons.

His eyes roll to human and back to all-white and blood gleams from his sickening smile, dripping into his beard. Dean has no idea what “taking the knife” means. Every instinct tells him to fight, and a knife would definitely help his case, but there’s sure to be a consequence.

Alistair: What’ll it be? Either become a demon, or try to fight. But there’s no second chance if you lose this time.

This is fucking cheesy, Dean thinks, and, what a fucking rip-off.

It gets even cheesier when the sound of trumpets play, and an angel appears on-screen, giant white wings spread out and sword drawn. Dean watches him drag Bonzo from the chains and the screen whites out.

Bonzo stands up from the exact place he had fallen, looking no worse for wear except for the glowing mark on his right shoulder. Dean leans in towards the screen, staring at the mark until he realizes it’s a handprint.

Bonzo: Wtf, man? What did you do to me?  
Clarence: Only what was necessary. I’m sorry about the mark, it’s within the game parameters. It means you have the protection of angels and can’t be sent back to Hell or turned into a demon unless my team of angels allows it.  
Bonzo: Right. I could have gotten out of there on my own. Maybe I wanted to be a demon.  
Clarence: It’s too late now. I was alerted that a human was sent to Hell. Would you rather have been forced to make a choice? You do know that if you became a demon, you’d start back at level one, and if you lost to Alistair, you’d start back at level one, right?  
Bonzo: You could just let me go.  
Clarnece: That’s not happening.  
Bonzo: Why not?  
Clarence: Because I know your team is on the side of Heaven. And you have the strongest soul energy I’ve ever seen in a human of your level.  
Bonzo: Oh, so you want to use me.  
Clarence: I suppose you could always simply terminate this character and create a new one.

The more he looks at the mark, the angrier he gets. This is HIS avatar and now it’s messed up, and nothing in his appearance inventory says anything about it. T-shirt, jeans, boots, the amulet he’d found in a treasure chest…all of it removable. He knows Ash has some kind of a snake tattoo on DoctorBadass, and not only is it removable but it’s movable. But it’s like the game doesn’t even register the handprint, just displays it.

 

Bonzo: Do I even know you?  
Clarence: As you can see, my name is Clarence and I am an Angel of the Lord. As far as I know we have not met before today.  
Bonzo: Yeah, cut the act. Thanks for nothing, Big Man.

The nickname is typed and sent before he even thinks about it. He leaves Clarence behind, though, looking out for something he can kill quickly. Not like he has to worry about dying again.

He’s surprised to see Clarence following him.

Clarence: Is there anything else I can call you?  
Bonzo: What  
Clarence: What’s your name?  
Bonzo: John, I guess?

He lies, because he doesn’t believe Clarence told him his real name either, not for a second.

When he’s attacked for the second time by a pack of hellhounds, he grudgingly thanks Clarence both for the support and for the get out of Hell free card when his health drops dangerously low once more.

***  
Clarence: Hello, Dean.  
Bonzo: Hey, Big Man, what’s up?  
Clarence: Trying to ignore my awful neighbor  
Bonzo: Small world, I have a shitty neighbor, too.  
Clarence: Does he blast music on Saturday mornings?  
Bonzo: How early?  
Clarence: Before noon.  
Bonzo: You lazy piece of shit, I’m usually at work by 10.  
Clarence: When do you sleep?  
Bonzo: …in class, duh  
Clarence: Of course, how silly of me. Why even bother going to school?  
Bonzo: There’s this thing called college, you might have heard of it. Apparently I have to at least graduate to get into one.  
Clarence: You could always get a GED if you dislike school so much. Are you old enough to drop out?  
Bonzo: Well, I’m trying to be a good example for my younger brother you know? Don’t know why I bother, kid’s so smart he could probably get into college now if he wanted to. Kind of makes me feel like  
Clarence: Like what?  
Bonzo: Hey, who said this was going to be some kind of heart to heart, Smitey McSmiterton?  
Clarence: I think I prefer Big Man. But John, you know if you ever need to talk, I will be happy to listen.  
Bonzo: Yeah? Thanks. Me too.

Dean resolutely ignores the piles of letters from colleges announcing application deadlines. The pile grows every day, nearly dwarfing the stack of unpaid bills. He’s going to have to ask Bobby for a hand again this month, he realizes. The thought makes his stomach hurt, and he almost abandons the macaroni boiling on the stove but Sam needs to eat, too.

His skin itches to get back online, but he knows he’d only have Ash and Chuck for the next few hours, and as nice as it would be to spill all of his problems to his friends, he’s pretty sure they only care about killing monsters. And he can’t let Sam think that things are difficult, or that John just doesn’t give a shit anymore.

With Clarence, though, he can tell him he doesn’t care about school, that he hasn’t heard from his dad in a month, or he can bitch about running out of ammo and Clarence never gets frustrated with him. He even does this thing where he seems to know exactly the right things to say, exactly what Dean needs to hear. And all the while, Dean stares at the glowing handprint on his avatar, wondering what an angel’s hand would feel like on his skin. Of course, Clarence is probably a fifty-year-old fat man in Canada. Or, more likely, an intelligent, attractive guy on his way to Harvard who has goals that put Dean’s pathetic future to shame.

Dean’s about to tell Sam that dinner’s almost ready, maybe throw an insult or two in his direction to make himself feel better, but something in Castiel’s voice makes him pause in the doorway.

“I’m not even sure I want to go to college. My parents have been…relentless. Voicemails, emails, text messages. They’re insisting I go to an Ivy League school, follow in my father’s footsteps like my older brothers, but honestly I’m not even sure I have an interest in law. I don’t even know what I want to do.” Dean winces in sympathy at Castiel’s frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m here to help you, not complain about my problems.”

“It’s okay, Cas, really. If you ever need to talk, I’m here to listen. It’s the least I can do since you don’t let me pay you.”

The revelation surprises Dean unpleasantly. Part of him wants to storm into the room and make a scene, but rationally he knows that Castiel is doing them a huge favor. He spares another look to the bills and checks his watch. He’s itching to talk to Clarence but he still has another hour to wait.

“You know, Dean’s probably just going to the community college.” Sam offers, as if he’s trying to give Dean reasons to be ashamed of himself. “So, if you went, you’d definitely know someone.”

“Yes, but I don’t think mutual lack of ambition is enough for us to actually be friends.” Only the knowledge that this guy is tutoring his brother for free is keeping Dean from an indignant outburst at this point.

Sam laughs. “You never know. He, hey plays that game 66 Seals. Have you heard of it? I know most of the seniors play, but…”

“Yes, I play quite a bit, why?”

“Oh, great! Dean’s like always playing. He’s got some friend he’s always talking to. I don’t know how he has friends, he nicknamed his character Bonzo, like what is that?” He’s chattering away a mile a minute, and Dean’s surprised that someone else can stand Sam when he gets this excited.

“It’s a nickname,” Cas responds, surprising Dean for the second time that evening. "For a member of Led Zepplin. John Bonham.” Cas sounds strange all of a sudden, voice shaking like he’s trying to keep calm. “I’m sorry, Sam, I need to go. I’ll come over early tomorrow night.” He’s gone before Sam has much of a chance to protest, and Dean watches his messy dark hair disappear as the door closes. He turns back into the kitchen and shuts the stove off, taking the time to look like he wasn’t eavesdropping on his brother’s conversations like a creep.

“Hey, what’d you do to scare him off? I was going to invite him to stay for dinner.”

The size of Sam’s grin makes Dean vaguely uncomfortable. “He likes Led Zeppelin, Dean,” he says enthusiastically, “And he plays your game. You should be nicer to him. Maybe be friends? He might be going to Lawrence Community, too.” The eyebrow waggle is almost too much for Dean.

“Shut up and go eat. I’m going upstairs.”

“You should play with him!” Sam shouts after him. Dean rolls his eyes. Friends might be a stretch, but he knows that Bobby needs another hand around the shop to work numbers, and it would at least give Cas something to do until he figured out what he actually wanted to do with his life. Of all the people not to know what they’re doing, Dean thinks, Cas is the last person he’d expect.

He can almost imagine exactly what Clarence will say when he spills his problems. A combination of telling him to do what he wants, to screw his pride, and be glad he even has Bobby to support him. But the memory of these reassurances only helps so much as he waits, and waits, and waits for him to get his ass online. The longer he waits, the more frustrated he gets, an irrational sense of betrayal seeping into him and his gameplay. His friends are impressed with his sudden violence, and ask if he’s broken up with his boyfriend. This is exactly the last thing Dean needed, and Clarence better have a damn good reason for being gone.

Dean’s anger eventually fades into an aching worry almost as bad as what he feels whenever his dad leaves the house. And as each day without contact passes, he worries even more, until it’s Friday, the game deadline. And Dean feels like he’s going to explode, splatter into bits across the screen like one of the monsters he’s killed.

He skips class, just like everyone else. He’s exhausted, hasn’t slept in days, up all night waiting for some sign and then falling asleep in class or worse, over the engine of a car. When Bobby asked what the hell was wrong with him, he just barely managed to explain his money situation, accepting the gruff but affectionate “Idjit,” as Bobby cuffed him on the side of the head and reminded him that he’s always there to help. And always happy to schedule Dean for more hours if he wants to make up the difference.

Now, he’s about to doze off in front of his computer screen, not giving a shit about the outcome of the game but nearly praying that Clarence shows up, even if it’s just to tell him that he no longer wants to be his friend as long as it means he hasn’t just dropped dead. Dean feels dumped, acutely understanding the look in the eye of every girl he’s ever moved on from. He drops his head to his desk, hating this profound new level of self-pity.

“Dean.” A voice in the doorway interrupts his misery, but Dean’s far too upset to deal with Castiel, too. Despite Sam’s nagging, he hasn’t attempted to find him in the game, not really interested in making nice for no reason other than “mutual lack of ambition.”

“Dean, look at me, I’m so sorry.” For some reason, he sounds as wrecked as Dean’s been feeling.

“What are you talking about?” Dean sits up and looks, surprised to see the circles under his eyes even darker than usual, his eyes wide and sad.

“I believe I abandoned you when you needed me the most.” He takes a tentative step into the room.

“You’re not making any sense,” Dean insists, frowning and shaking his head, “I barely know you-“

“Your birthday is January 24th. You know what you want to do with your life about as much as I do, which isn’t at all. Your game bio is bullshit on purpose, because you’re afraid to let people realize how much of yourself you put into the game. And I didn’t know the meaning behind your avatar’s name because I’m a Zeppelin fan.”

“You fucker!” Dean shouts as he stands abruptly, realization sinking in, “How long have you known? What the hell are you playing at? I thought you died and this whole time you’ve what, been playing some kind of joke on me? Is Sam in on this, too?” He’s barely a foot from Castiel now, his fists clenched.

Cas swallows, looking sicker. “I’ve only known for a week, when Sam told me you played. I panicked. I’ve never felt…I’ve never felt Dean, not until I started to realize we shared the same fears. That I wasn’t alone. I have many friends, but not one who has care for me the way you do. Did.” His voice breaks and Dean feels like crying.

He reaches out and just barely traces the line of Cas’s cheekbone with his finger, cups his cheek in his hand. He steps even closer, barely whispering, “Can I?” against his lips and kissing him before he can answer. Dean hopes this will convey everything he can’t put into words, and he’s relieved to see that Cas looks just as stupidly happy as Dean feels when they part.

Pulling Cas all the way into the room and towards the bed, he pulls the door shut and locks it with a loud click. “Hey, take your shirt off,” he says as he drops his own on the floor.

Cas goes from surprised to confused in seconds, blushing. “I know we’ve, but, it’s,” he stammers, trying to look away from Dean’s bare chest.

Dean smirks even though his brain is trying to describe Cas with a supply of words like “cute” and “adorable.” “Dude, I haven’t slept in days, and you look like you haven’t, either.”

Still, Cas hesitates. “But, the game ends today, and-“

Dean’s pulling his shirt over his head before he can protest, laughing and kissing the shock from his face. “I’m so glad you’re not a fifty-year-old Canadian.” He pulls him into bed. “Sleep. I’m tired. The game will survive without us.”

It takes a few moments, but Cas melts into him, closing his eyes. “I sincerely hope what I said about your penis is true,” he murmurs, deadpan.

Dean can’t help the ridiculous grin on his face. He holds Cas closer, saying nothing when Cas’s hand closes loosely over his right shoulder.


End file.
